Just Another Tuesday
by The Spectrum Sings
Summary: "Just let go—it's okay—let go," Gabriel murmurs as Sam gasps panicked sounds into his shoulder. There's so much to say, but there are no words to say it.


On Monday nights, Sam finds it hard to sleep. The dim light from the street lights and motel sign suddenly keep him awake, even though he has grown up learning to block them out. He lies in bed, facing the window with the baggy, brown drapes that are practically see through and watches the parking lot. The sign reads The Sunshine Motel and even without the name suggesting a cheerful, perky attitude; it is too bright, too happy, and too optimistic for what is nearing 2am. Really, it's already Tuesday, but Sam's eyes have yet to drift shut for more than ten seconds and Dean is still breathing. Sam crosses his fingers and hopes. Dean snores on the lumpy, questionably clean motel bed, because he doesn't have the memories Sam has. He doesn't have to walk around on Tuesday's fearful and cautious and mistrustful, not of monsters but of the day itself. Sam's always on edge, always waiting for his brother to be gone—to be torn from him, to be killed and mauled and broken in a thousand ways, again and again and again.

It's 2am, and Sam is counting. He doesn't know what's real anymore. If none of those Tuesdays were real, who is to say anything in his life is? Every day could be Gabriel's personal puppet show, and Sam has no way of knowing. The lines between everything are too blurred. They're ready to collapse. He doesn't know how many more Tuesday's he can deal with, even if they only come weekly now.

Sam keeps his eyes on the window, on the soft, pale sky crying inky blue tears. He didn't notice it start to rain, but there is it, falling in a way that seems endless. When it darkens the light of the street lights, Sam is grateful.

Somewhere along the way, Sam feels like he and Dean grew old. Their lives consist of grief and loss and running. Their world is in decay, as are they. Sometimes, Sam thinks they have seen too much and that it is too late for either of them to be really okay ever again. Sam hears Dean shift in his sleep. He doesn't wake and Sam doesn't turn.

The rain raps the windows, knocks the door, thumps the pavement, and the street lights that were once a brilliant beam of yellow are now vague and hazy, muted and weak. It's Tuesday, dammit, it's Tuesday, and Sam doesn't trust the flicker of lights or the slap of rain.

"Gabriel?" He whispers into the night, and then he feels silly, because it's a rain storm, not an archangel angel. The wind howls, and Sam listens to its soft song and suddenly it's 3am and Sam is a bit disappointed Gabriel didn't answer him and a bit glad, too.

The world feels faint and subdued, and Sam climbs out of bed in a gangly mess of limbs. A flash of pure white crackles through the air as Sam opens the door, and he has a memory of being eight years old and thinking the sky was falling. No matter what Dean said, Sam was convinced that heaven was streaming onto the floor like bits of broken glass. Dean had gathered him up in his big arms and together they'd huddled in the corner, using all the blankets and cushions to make a den, until the storm faded to a light, clear dusk. Neither of them mentioned it to their dad when he finally turned up after lunch the next day. Now, Sam isn't afraid of the lightening because he thinks heaven is falling. He's afraid in case it finds a way to steal his brother into the depths.

The rain makes the air murky and gloomy, heavy in a sense too light too be mist and not heavy enough for fog, and out of the white shadows, Gabriel develops into something whole and solid. Sam feels like he's lost his footing on a cliff side, any minute now he's going to hit the jagged, demanding rocks beneath him that roar for his fall. His grip is loose on reality. Tuesdays enfold him. But here is Gabriel, walking easily towards him, with a face deep set in sorrow and guilt. When Sam falls, terror threatening to squeeze his neck, Gabriel catches him, supporting and clutching at him. Gabriel's eyes are no longer that of a fallen, false god, dark with gleeful malice, they're bright and soulful, and embrace Sam's soul.

"Just let go—it's okay—let go," Gabriel murmurs as Sam gasps panicked sounds into his shoulder. There's so much to say, but there are no words to say it. "I'll never forgive myself for what I did to you, Sammy." He says instead.

I won't either, Sam thinks, but he clings back, pressing his face into Gabriel's neck and clasping a hand into his hair, and another into his coat, and just breathes. He can't let go, and he twists Gabriel's coat in his fingers, bringing him as close as possible. He needs the comfort, he needs the foothold. He doesn't know why or how or what, but Sam doesn't question any of this things, he holds assured to his life raft.

"I'm sorry," Gabriel says honestly, and brushes his lips against Sam's head, his cheek, and the back of his neck, raising goose bumps. "I'm sorry."

And when Sam returns the gesture, letting his lips trail the others steady face, the rain stops and he feels small and giant, beginning and endless, because it's Tuesday, and he's not afraid.

Gabriel's hands clench into Sam's skin and Sam sighs out his name, softly, sadly, surely.

This is the unavoidable act of forgiveness.


End file.
